te turned to look at the speaker, and in spite of her
excitement, of her sorrow and of her anxieties, she could not help
smiling at the whimsical little figure which sat opposite to her, on a
very rickety chair, solemnly striving with slow and measured movement
of hand and arm, and a large supply of breath, to get up a polish on the
worn-out surface of an ancient pair of buckled shoes.

The figure was slender and almost wizened, the thin shoulders round
with an habitual stoop, the lean shanks were encased in a pair of
much-darned, coarse black stockings. It was the figure of an old man,
with a gentle, clear-cut face furrowed by a forest of wrinkles, and
surmounted by scanty white locks above a smooth forehead which looked
yellow and polished like an ancient piece of ivory.

He had looked across at Marguerite as he spoke, and a pair of innately
kind and mild blue eyes were fixed with tender reproach upon her.
Marguerite thought that she had never seen quite so much goodness and
simple-heartedness portrayed on any face before. It literally beamed out
of those pale blue eyes, which seemed quite full of unshed tears.

The old man wore a tattered garment, a miracle of shining cleanliness,
which had once been a soutane of smooth black cloth, but was now a
mass of patches and threadbare at shoulders and knees. He seemed deeply
intent in the task of polishing his shoes, and having delivered himself
of his little admonition, he very solemnly and earnestly resumed his
work.

Marguerite's first and most natural instinct had, of course, been one of
dislike and mistrust of anyone who appeared to be in some way on guard
over her. But when she took in every detail of the quaint figure of the
old man, his scrupulous tidiness of apparel, the resigned stoop of his
shoulders, and met in full the gaze of those moist eyes, she felt that
the whole aspect of the man, as he sat there polishing his shoes, was
infinitely pathetic and, in its simplicity, commanding of respect.

"Who are you?" asked Lady Blakeney at last, for the old man after
looking at her with a kind of appealing wonder, seemed to be waiting for
her to speak.

"A priest of the good God, my dear child," replied the old man with a
deep sigh and a shake of his scanty locks, "who is not allowed to serve
his divine Master any longer. A poor old fellow, very harmless and very
helpless, who had been set here to watch over you.

"You must not look upon me as a jailer because of